The Prince of Midnight (32 page)

Chilton appeared from behind the billow of purple silk, dressed in simple
black. Standing at the front of the church, he began another of his sermons, a
long perambulation about salvation and his flock. S.T. tried to float back into
more appealing thoughts, but the hands clamped to his own bothered him. When he
attempted to withdraw unobtrusively, the grip tightened. He tried glaring at the
clergyman, but the minister appeared to be lost in Chilton's sermon along with
Mr. True Word.

Frustrated, S.T. stared down at his hat. An unpleasant moist warmth grew
where his palms were pressed against the other men's. From the corner of his
eye, he could see that the whole congregation appeared to be linked, even the
girls in the aisles, the nearest of whom held the hand of the man at the end of
the row.

Chilton's voice swept on, rising and falling with increasing emotion. S.T.
thought the man looked bizarre, with his hair powdered to orange and his wide,
childish eyes that moved over the audience with a pendulous rhythm, pausing only
to focus on some individual for a moment as he made a personal pronouncement
about Sweet Harmony's transgressions or Sacred Light's penitence. He named a
large number of the congregation, speaking for several moments of each and
receiving heartfelt answers to his urges to acknowledge sin. When he cried,
"True Word!" S.T. felt the clutch on his right hand tighten.

"True Word ..." Chilton's voice dropped to a whisper. "Your master knows.
Will you confess?"

"Avarice!" True Word shouted. "Unholy desire and covetousness!"

"Will you let it go?" Chilton asked softly. "Will you bow down in shame and
sorrow?"

"Oh, master—forgive me!" True Word bent over his lap. Chagrined, S.T. tried
to drag his hand away, but the grip tightened violently. "Don't!" True Word
sobbed, shaking his head. "Don't refuse me the healing touch!"

"Bugger off," S.T. muttered, and wrenched his hand free.

True Word groped, caught it back, and lifted it to his cheek. Everyone was
looking at them. Under the weight of this collective scrutiny, S.T. drew in a
deep breath and suffered the embrace, feeling heat rise fierily in his neck and
face.

Chilton stared at him and smiled. He didn't go on with the sermon, as he had
with the others. He just gazed at S.T. without blinking.

"I feel the power," he whispered into the waiting silence. "I feel the
healing power radiating from you, Mr. Bartlett. Into me. Into the man named True
Word. Into everyone here!" He lifted his arms and shouted, "Do you feel it?"

A murmuring started in the back of the church and swept forward. S.T.'s palms
began to tingle, a faint itching that grew quickly into a sensation he'd never
experienced. His scalp and arms prickled; his whole body felt queer, horribly
pulsating, as if all his muscles had gone wobbly and out of his control. Strange
patterns began to sparkle and coalesce in the purple silk before his eyes.

He could hear moans and cries around him, Chilton's voice rising and rising,
calling him to come, calling him by name. The ghastly sensation intensified. He
thought he was going to pass out, that the patterns in the silk would grow and
grow and overwhelm him.

"Give it to me!" Chilton cried. "Give it to me—don't suffer; come to me. Let
the power come to me!"

S.T. yanked his hand away from the clergyman. Instantly, the deep pulsating
feeling vanished, leaving only the prickling of every hair and the pinwheeling
sparks before his eyes. He stood up blindly, wanting out of this, but True Word
would not let go. S.T. blinked and found Chilton just in front of him as the
bright patterns faded from his eyes.

"Pass it to me," Chilton cried, reaching out. "Give your vitality to me, that
I may use it as it was meant to be used!"

S.T. lifted his free arm to fend the man off, and between them a brilliant
arc of light jumped across a hand's span, from his fingers to Chilton's. The
pain made S.T. jerk back, swearing.

The weird prickling in his scalp evaporated. The whole congregation moaned, a
single sound, like a huge animal in the last throes of life.

"Dove of Peace!" Chilton thundered.

The kneeling figure at the front of the church rose and came toward them.
S.T. saw her pretty young face, her eyes locked on Chilton with awed hope.

"Dove of Peace," Chilton intoned, "you've asked for an end to the terrible
pains in your head."

She nodded quickly.

"Come here, my beloved," Chilton said gently.

She moved to him, going down on her knees.

"Take off your veil and cap."

She obeyed, allowing her blonde hair to fall down over her shoulders.

Chilton reached out, holding his hands over her, his palms hovering an inch
above her head. S.T. could see the fine golden hair rise up, clinging by single
strands to his palms. Dove of Peace gasped softly and lifted her hands, touching
the delicate halo that stood out from her head. She brushed Chilton's hand, and
S.T. heard a faint crackle. Dove of Peace started and said, "Oh my!"

"This is God's healing power," Chilton said. "God's blessing on you for
bringing Mr. Bartlett to us. Is your pain gone, precious child?"

"Yes," Dove of Peace sighed. She sank down onto her heels and looked up at
Chilton with wide eyes. " 'Tis gone."

The congregation murmured. People began to stand up and pray out loud,
including the visiting clergymen. True Word kissed S.T.'s hand and started to
blubber again.

"The Lord has brought Mr. Bartlett to us," Chilton pronounced over the devout
clamor. "Mr. Bartlett"—he looked at S.T.—"will you come? Will you give us the
gift that the Lord has given to you?"

S.T. cleared his throat. "For God's sake," he said, keeping his voice low.
"Are you—"

"For God's sake!" Chilton cried. "Yes! For His sake!" He held out his hand.
"Will you come, then? Mr. Bartlett, don't think you can do this alone. Don't
make the mistake of hubris. You cannot go out and perform the miracles that we
see here every day—but if you'll join us; if you'll become a part of our family
in God, you have the healing power in you, to be used by me to help others. You
have it in you, Mr. Bartlett—a power as strong as I've felt in all my many years
of service to the Lord. Will you come?"

"I'd rather not," S.T. said. "Thank you."

The moans and murmurs around him sank into silence.

Dove of Peace gazed at him. There was no reproach in her look, only sadness.
She stood up and came to the prayer rail, reaching over to take his hands. He
felt a tiny snap of sensation as they touched, a pale echo of the painful spark
that had crackled between him and Chilton. She had felt it too; he saw her draw
her breath sharply, and then gaze at him in adoration.

"Please," she whispered. "Please stay and help us."

Chilton could have preached all day and True Word wept his eyes out, and not
had the effect of those bright, hopeful female eyes. S.T. tried to say no: it
was impossible, it was preposterous, it was all a sham of some sort—but he could
not find words to say so at just that moment.

He took a deep breath and set his jaw. "All right. What do you want me to
do?"

"Pray," Chilton said instantly, and the congregation began to kneel. "Come up
with me and with your beloved Dove of Peace, and join with us in prayer."

So he had to go and kneel down and hold hands again and listen for an
interminable length of time, until his legs were aching and his stomach growled
and the sunlight through the stained glass crawled across the floor in
ever-lengthening shafts.

For a while he pondered how Chilton had managed the "power" trick. That he'd
been electrified, S.T. had no doubt—he'd heard accounts of the sensation. In
France it was all the rage: they'd once simultaneously shocked a hundred and
eighty of the King's Guards for the amusement of the Parisians, and the news had
reached as far as La Paire by eight months later. Just what method Chilton used
was mysterious. S.T. thought it needed a machine of some sort, though he didn't
see anything that looked likely.

If anyone else doubted Chilton's theory of healing power, they didn't mention
it. The service continued until nearly dusk. S.T. was starving. When at last it
was over, he stood up, stretching his aching joints carefully. He moved away
from Chilton, toward the cluster of visiting clergy.

They all gazed at him, and the one who'd sat next to S.T. blinked and
moistened his lips. "I would not have believed it," he mumbled, and made as if
to shake S.T.'s hand before he hesitated in the motion, as if he'd just
remembered that he didn't want to touch. He turned to his companions. "If I
hadn't experienced it for myself, I would have scoffed."

The others looked uncomfortable, but before S.T. could answer, a crowd of
Chilton's congregation intervened, swirling around him, all talking at once,
welcoming him into their family. True Word shoved his way through the press of
females and kissed S.T.'s hand again. S.T. yanked it away, only to have the
girls take up the gesture. Dove of Peace hugged him. By the time he managed to
work himself free of the hospitality and out into the churchyard, the visitors
had all disappeared.

Chilton was on the step, speaking to a little cluster of members. He turned
to S.T., catching him by the shoulders. "I'm overjoyed, sir! I bless you for
your decision."

"Take your hands off me," S.T. said brusquely. He gripped his sword. "I've
changed my mind."

Chilton patted his shoulder and let go. "I'm sorry for that, then." He shook
his head. "It happens, sometimes—

commitments made in haste are oft repudiated. We don't wish for you to stay
if you're not fully prepared."

"You're not staying?" Dove of Peace came up behind him. "You're going?'

"Yes," he said, and only met her eyes an instant before he looked away
awkwardly. "I never meant to stay, you know.

She put her hand to her lip. "Oh. I'm so sorry." She looked down at the step.
"Thank you—for giving me the touch. My headache is gone."

"I didn't give you anything you didn't already have," he said softly.

Chilton seized his elbow. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, I'll
give myself the pleasure of walking with you and my little Dove to the livery."

S.T. would have gladly foregone that treat, but Dove's face brightened. For
her sake, he waited while Chilton disappeared into the church and joined them
again a few minutes later. As they walked down the high ctreet and passed the
house where S.T. had met Dove of Peace, Chilton commented that she might
consider returning to her chores.

She obeyed without protest, only taking S.T.'s hand and giving it a hard
squeeze before she turned away and ran through the gate.

"I'm afraid you may have broken a heart," Chilton said with a touch of
amusement as they walked on. "Foolish child."

"Very," S.T. said.

Chilton sighed and nodded. "Few are as innocent as Dove when they come to us
from the worst stews of man's making."

"Aye, I don't doubt that," S.T. said grimly. "I'd never have guessed that she
came off the streets if she hadn't told me. I'd have taken her for gentle bred."

"I'm gratified," Chilton said. "Highly gratified. Schooling is an important
part of our mission, you see. Ah, here is little Chastity. Is Mr. Bartlett's
mount ready, my beloved?"

"No, Master Jamie, sir, 'tain't." The girl who appeared out of the shadows of
the stable shook her head. "That horse, 'ee 'us going to throw a shoe. 01'
Pap—uh—Saving Grace, I mean, beg pardon—he tooked it away to fix."

"I hope you aren't in a fearful hurry, Mr. Bartlett? Perhaps you'll dine with
us."

In the neat, plain dining room of what had once been a substantial family
home, every man wanted to sit beside his new friend Mr. Bartlett. They loved him
in Heavenly Sanctuary; he was one of the ones they'd been waiting for: his
"power" brought them one step closer to the day their Jamie would lead them
forward into the future where God's world would come to pass.

All traces of decoration had been removed from the room, no paintings, no
mantel, no rugs—only the carved plaster on the ceiling remained. Two extra
tables were crammed in, although the male members of Chilton's congregation only
filled one. When the girls began serving, they had to squeeze between the empty
chairs, holding the kettles high over their heads.

S.T. received a huge portion of oatmeal porridge, enlivened by sliced apple
and sprinkled with too much salt by an overly enthusiastic neighbor determined
to share. He looked at the formidable serving dubiously. They might not eat
frequently in Heavenly Sanctuary, but they certainly got plenty when they did.

Everyone quieted, the serving girls lined up along the wall, and all heads
bowed. One of the men began a prayer out loud, and when he said "Amen," another
began, followed by someone else, all praying in random order and at random
length. S.T. sat on a hard chair and watched his porridge grow cold and lumpy.
Hunger was beginning to give him a headache.

Sometime during the prayer, the front door opened and the visiting clergymen
came into the hall. With hushed voices, two of the serving girls ushered them
past the dining room with its extra tables and chairs, toward the back of the
house.

The prayers droned on. After a while, S.T. caught a tantalizing whiff of meat
and warm bread, but no one brought anything else to the dining room. He could
hear cheerful voices from down the hall. It slowly dawned upon him that the
other visitors were being fed, and they hadn't gotten cold porridge, either.

Finally, a long silence descended. S.T. added his own silent prayer that they
could at last begin eating. Twilight was falling, and even lumping oatmeal
looked good.

The visiting clergymen came back down the hall, shepherded by Chilton, who
bid them a pleasant good night at the front door, assuring them that the
wagonette was waiting at the livery, ready to return them to Hexham.